


the case of the marital spat

by kidcomrade



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, i'd say it's shippy if you squint but they're kinda always like that so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcomrade/pseuds/kidcomrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rewrite of the reunion in The Empty House. Things do not go as planned and by "not as planned", I mean <i>someone</i> gets punched in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the case of the marital spat

The sudden sight of Sherlock Holmes, after so long an absence, induced the first and last time that John Watson would faint in his life. A gray mist swirled before Watson’s eyes, and when it had cleared, he was lying half-reclined in his study chair when before he had been standing straight up. He blinked, as if shaking a lengthy slumber from his eyes. Slowly, the world began to reform around him: his collar hung half undone around his neck. The taste of brandy, bitter and tingling, lingered upon his lips. There was a throbbing ache building at the back of his head. And, most importantly, Sherlock Holmes, three years older, paler, thinner, keener, stood bent over him, a look of scrutiny on his face. The detective set his flask of brandy down on the table before addressing Watson with a tone of genuine regret.

“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

Watson punched him in the face.

Holmes was not at all expecting the sudden crushing force ( _But_ _Watson has quite the right hook_ , he observed, even as the splitting pain cracked its way through the bridge of his nose), and, with both the shock of the entire situation and the doctor’s fist slamming into his face, he was propelled backward, landing unceremoniously on the pile of books he’d used while masquerading as that elderly bookseller. His body fell with a thud; the old volumes scattered across the floor with a loud clatter and the pigeon-wing flutter of pages. And Watson, standing above him with wide eyes and his right fist still tightly clenched and trembling, stared down at his old friend as if his corpse had reanimated and waltzed its way into his study.

“Holmes!” Watson cried--his features seemed to be shifting rapidly back and forth between fear and utter confusion-- “Oh, God. It was a reflexive action. My--my arm operated apart from my mind. I am--”

Holmes gingerly rubbed a bit of blood from his nose. “Not a problem at all, my dear Doctor,” he answered curtly, for there was a hardcover book currently digging its thick spine into his _own_ spine. “I understand completely. After all, you’ve been unconscious for very nearly an hour now. You are in shock, and it may take you a few more moments to recover.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Watson paused.

“...No, I most certainly am _not_ in shock, Holmes!” His voice built quickly up to a noisy, frustrated shout. “I am in complete control of my own mind--but whether I’m able to say the same for you remains to be seen!”

Holmes, still splayed upon the floor and wearing the ragged coat of the bookseller, had already lit and begun to puff at a cigarette. “Pardon?”

“You were _dead!_ **”**

“See, now I am _certain_ that you’re still dazed.” He exhaled through his nose, wisps of smoke curling lazily about the angles of his face. “You’ve already made a most forceful physical contact with me, have you not, Doctor? Surely you’d have realized by now that I am neither spirit nor hallucination.”

“That is not the issue at hand. That is the absolute _furthest_ thing from the issue at hand,” seethed Watson. His head was still pounding, and his sudden ‘attack’ had given him an unwelcome surge of adrenaline. He began to pace back and forth: anything to burn off the energy and calm his racing thoughts. “For three years, you led me to believe you’d perished in that dreadful chasm, and out of the blue, you return, as if arisen from the dead?” Watson, angry and still completely bewildered, continued. “Lord, Holmes, I know you must have had your reasons, but you could have sent some--some sign, or a letter--”

Holmes frowned and steadily rose to his feet. As he spoke, he drew slowly closer to Watson (with extremely careful footsteps, just in case the other man decided to land a second blow upon his nose). “Many times during the last three years have I taken up my pen to write to you, but it was all-important that it should be thought I was dead. It is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my untimely fate had you not yourself believed that it was true. And always I feared your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion, revealing my secret and exposing the truth of my survival. Had it been possible, Watson, I should have written to you straight away.”

With a defeated sigh, Watson sank back into his chair. “And so, sentencing me to these three years of grief was the most practical option?” He threw up his hands. “Your thoughtfulness, as ever, is appreciated.”

The expression of regret crossed Holmes’ face for the second time that day. “Grief?”

“Yes, Holmes.” Watson swallowed the dry lump that had begun to build in his throat. “Grief. An emotion one must feel when their most dear companions suddenly tumble to their deaths and their wives succumb to illness within a year.”

His eyes widened. “Certainly, she is not--”

“Not five months after you,” Watson answered hollowly. “I was entirely alone.”

The two fell into a weighty silence; neither man looked the other in the face for a time, each quietly taking stock of their own thoughts and the newly unfolded revelations.

“If I had foreseen,” Holmes began slowly, “that you would mourn me so... that your wife would fall ill…”

Watson shook his head. “No. Now I know that it truly is you, Holmes. You would never have guessed at my sorrow in a thousand years. I’d wager the whole of my practice upon it. For all your genius, humanity--the _heart_ \--still remains entirely alien to the maze you uphold as a mind.”

“...Good heavens,” murmured Watson. He moved to grip him by the sleeve; his hand slid down the thin, sinewy arm to gently squeeze the veined, weathered hand of Sherlock Holmes. The cigarette, burnt almost entirely away now, fell through Holmes’ fingers and into a small pile of ash on the floor. “To think that you, of all men, should be standing in my study. I can hardly believe my eyes.”

“Believe them, my good man.” Holmes smiled. “I am back from the grave, if only for a wish to see my dear friend Watson in his old chair in Baker Street once more.”

“But how on earth were you able to escape the falls and elude Moriarty?”

Reassured, Holmes returned to his normal prattle without missing a beat. “First, will you allow me to stretch, and rest myself, before I give you an account of these last three years? I have been maintaining my disguise--” he gestured with his free hand to the scattered books and abandoned white wig on the floor, “--for several hours on end. Taking a foot off one’s height through a change in posture is far from the most comfortable manner of deception I could have chosen.”

“But of course.”

Watson let go of Holmes’ hand, and the detective began to stretch, rolling his shoulders and twisting his back to shake off the stiffness. “I had called to Baker Street earlier this week, in fact. Mrs. Hudson was reduced to violent hysterics when she caught sight of me. Thankfully, Mycroft had preserved my rooms just as they had--”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly. “Mycroft was my only confidant, as the matter of obtaining the funds I needed was--”

Suddenly, Watson leapt back to his feet. “You kept me in the dark for three years, _and you told Mycroft?!”_

Thankfully, Holmes saw _this_ punch coming.

“Watson, I warn you, I have some skill in _baritsu_ and several other forms of Eastern wrestling technique—grappling with me in such a foolish manner will not yield any sort of positive result,“ he said calmly, holding both of Watson’s arms above his head as the other man thrashed against his grip. “If further restraining you becomes necessary, I will not hesitate to do so.”

“You horrendous, despicable man! I was prepared to forgive you—these _excuses_ , a whole load of _bollocks_ **—** my affection puts you at risk, and yet you tell _Mycroft_ **—”**

“Now,” Holmes continued, raising his voice above Watson’s, “If I may ask for your cooperation tonight, perhaps it would be—“

“ _Cooperate!_ Oh, yes, _gladly_ ; for how many years will you disappear _this_ time?!”

“Watson, get a hold of yourself, man!”

“Get a hold of myself?! I’ll show _you_ who needs to get a hold of himself!”

And with that, Watson broke from Holmes’ grip and lunged straight for him.

 

\----

 

“Watson?”

“Yes, Holmes?”

“You _have_ calmed down now, correct?”

“I believe so.” Watson, having finished tending to Holmes’ black eye, now moved to dab at his own split lip. (When Holmes said that he was familiar with _baritsu_ , he had not been exaggerating in the least.) “I am truly sorry for my, er, outburst. I suppose I truly was in a bit of shock after your return, after all.”

“Not at all, Watson; I, in turn, apologize for my own indiscretion. A man of immense vitality such as yourself would have needed that, ah, violent release, which I should have anticipated.”

Embarrassed, Watson coughed.

“But as I was endeavoring to tell you earlier,” Holmes continued, “I’ve a piece of work for us both tonight. It will almost certainly be dangerous, and your life, as ever, may be put on the line in your service. Would you, by some chance, be interested, my dear fellow?”

“Would you believe that I would deny any opportunity to again work with the great Sherlock Holmes?” Watson grinned. “I hope I have not scrambled your brains in that scuffle.”

“Truly?”

“Holmes, should you need me, I would follow you to the ends of the earth. You know that.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“ _And_ you will explain the rest over dinner before?” piped Watson, “The three years, your escape from Moriarty?”

“Absolutely. At nine o’clock tonight, we shall take action. And,” he added, with a chuckle, “perhaps that _excellent_ right hook of yours will be of service to us tonight, too.”


End file.
